Of Dominoes and Butterflies
by Gwyn Walker
Summary: The dark and edgy OC. The overpowered, "apex predator" OC. The "master of everything, prepared for every situation" OC. The OC that all the ladies love and all the guys are jealous of. Just what good reasons do they have for being the way they are, and just how does that affect the world and people around them? A deconstruction of the cliche OC traits seen in RWBY fan-fiction.
1. Teaser

_"Regardless of your vices." The voice continued, calming to its usual formality and stiff elegance. "You are different from the rest. Your ability to survive is strong. Your affinity to slaying them is insurmountable. They are rage. Brutal. Without mercy. But even to them. You will be worse. The "Angel of Death". That is what they called you, isn't it?"_

 _Instead of pride, Branson felt revulsion course through him._

 _With it, he found the motivation to draw Bloodhound and point it off to his side. Its size and shape was comparable to a katana, with the only distinction being the dirk-like point. Along the back of the blade, a bolt and barrel shorter than the blade was attached._

 _The timing was coincidental; as he lowered the blade, four Beowolves had climbed each corner of the roof. They bore grins of razor-sharp teeth, claws curled and bared, and bodies ready to spring on their newfound prey. But neither their stances or growls reached Branson's constitution. He stood there with closed eyes and a hard frown, choosing to pay more attention to the spiritual than the physical._

 _"This is your fault." His voice was soft and cold. There was a twitch of his sword hand and, in response, the Alpha of the pack raised up._

 _"It is." The voice answered, unrepentant and anticipating._

 _Branson's mouth curled, exposing the teeth in a feral snarl. He swung around to meet a leaping Alpha, balling his free hand into a fist. His uppercut crashed into the underside of the demon's chin, barely keeping its open maw from closing around his flesh. Aura triggered the flechette launcher, spitting seven Dust dart-like projectiles into the throat. Force and momentum threw the Alpha into the air and, a second after, the flechettes detonated. The resulting explosion destroyed both the head and a large part of the torso. What was left of its body crashed down to the ground, completely disintegrating a second later._

 _The underlings responded without hesitation, rushing on all fours at their target. One of them let out a roar as it got close, jumping off the roof's surface and lunging._

 _Branson pulled his sword arm back and extended his free hand out to the lunging Beowulf. The two lead fingers on his free hand served as a brief iron sight, his other hand pulling the trigger. The shot's recoil made the sword swing back. But it was accurate, piercing the front of the monster's head and gruesomely blowing out the back. The swing, driven by recoil, vertically sliced through the head and body of the third wolf._

 _He did not strike down the survivor. Instead, he turned and ran off the roof. Rushing winds smacked him in the face, but he kept squinted eyes open as he descended to the ground. He heard the angry roar of the wolf, followed by its own leap off. But his gaze was focused on an Ursa Major, whose beady eyes had zeroed in on him._

 _As it raised its claw, he pointed his free fist and fired seven more flechettes into the bear's face. A few of them met its eyes. In its throes and roars of pain, it dropped its paw._

 _Branson twisted his body to land feet-first on the Ursa's head, then leaped off in a back-flip. His boots and his jump height barely kept the following explosion from consuming his legs. It boosted him higher, allowing him to meet the falling wolf head-on. A backhand swing cut the demon in two, its remnants collapsing in sync with the bear's and Branson's form. Unlike them, he would land on his feet and straighten back up._

 _A series of growls and snarls caught his attention. He looked around, glaring at a scattered but large number of wolves and Creeps moving into surround him. They outnumbered him greatly, resembling a small army more than a simple pack. His anger pushed away his anxiety, and he gripped Bloodhound in two hands. The blood and adrenaline coursing through his veins was at an all-time high, with every part of him demanding that he fight._

 _"But," He declared, brandishing his sword threateningly and glaring at the monsters. "You all are gonna be the ones who'll pay!"_

* * *

 **Greetings! Welcome to my first story of the RWBY category!**

 **If you've made it down to the bottom and read every bit of this piece, thank you very much for showing interest! This is nothing but a teaser, but the final version will be finished soon enough. All that's left to do is revise my rough draft, convert it into a finalized version and then publish it. In the meantime, don't hesitate to tell me what you think. I encourage constructive criticism - just, don't be a jerk about it. No one likes a party pooper.**

 **After the first chapter's officially published, I'll have some questions to throw out to you concerning potential ideas and concepts. As thoughtful as I try to be about my works, it's always a big help to hear input from my readers. Feel free to throw out your ideas, but please PM me about it. I'd like to keep the review section of my stories contained with just that - reviews.**

 **Thank you and good night!**

 **-Gwyn Walker (Chescoke483)**


	2. Prologue: Black

As he sat on an abandoned roof, he saw a rotting and burning skeleton where there once was a vibrant and peaceful village. Dancing colors of orange and yellow tickled the night sky, dominating an otherwise charred landscape. Ruling beside them were their creators, Grimm of various shapes and sizes, who ran and prowled through the streets. Their growls and roars mated well with the crackles and snaps of the wildfire, giving birth to a twisted celebratory symphony. Beneath their heels were countless bodies of residents, each one mutilated and desecrated in their own ways.

It wasn't the first time he bore witness to such a scene. You see, Branson O'Carroll was a young rogue that wandered through Remnant's hostile landscape for the sake of a kingdom's sanctuary. He had nothing but his sword _Bloodhound_ and the clothes on his back - a black long-sleeved shirt and gray pants of resistant material. His protection consisted of the sword held by a rusty sash against the waist, followed by flechette launchers modified into his gauntlets and armored leather boots the cuffs of his pants were stuffed into. Had it not been for the circumstances, he would've never entered with such little preparation. His world was an unforgiving one - something that marked him via the various, faint scars on his face and the dimness of his brown eyes.

He wasn't the only one affected by it. Throughout his journey, he had traveled from village to village for temporary armistice. His stays were brief, as he tried to allow himself just enough time to recover supplies and strength. It wasn't out of any adversity towards people or him being in a hurry; he always tried being as amiable as he could despite himself, and it was his belief that time was never a restraint. Instead, it was the fact that his very presence put others as well as himself in great danger. In some cases, he had avoided putting others in that position. But more often than not, he failed. It had grown to the point where he was much more accepting of the doom he caused. It was why he was content to sit and stare as their world burned around him.

"Branson." The cause of this curse made itself known to him in a voice that sounded only in the depths of his mind. It was stern and firm. " They are closing in. We need to move."

Branson didn't move, continuing to sit with his arms resting on upraised knees. A soft wind blew through the area, tickling the scruffy black bob that was his hair. Even against the heat that came with it, he was still.

"Boy." The voice's throaty eloquence, already tainted by a demonic tone, was corrupted by a growing agitation. It ignored Branson as he slowly shut his eyes. "There is no time for your crying. If you don't move-"

"Shut. Up!" Branson hissed through clenched teeth, his eyebrows furrowing. "I am so sick of hearing your voice!"

"And I loathe yours." The voice sneered. "I loathe being in this form. Bound to you until death do us part. Being in this form as you're torn apart? That is much worse. I'd rather they die than you. If that means taking control? Then, so be it."

Branson exhaled shakily, letting his head fall on his arms. "Why don't you just do that?" He asked morosely, his anger fading. "You have the power. We both know I can't stop you."

"I can't." The voice argued with heat. "We also know that you can't handle my power. Taking control would cause you detriment. Long-term. If I pushed too hard. Your death would be ensured. It would free me from annoyance. But another thorn would take its place before any enjoyment."

After a small moment of silence, Branson harshly sighed and shoved himself up to his feet. He had to steady himself; the roof was slanted, suffering unnatural holes in its foundation and barely holding together. He peered below, his eyes catching several Beowolves approach his position. One hand gripped the base of _Bloodhound's_ scabbard. The other held the handle near the dirk-pointed guard and just below a gun's trigger.

"Regardless of your vices." The voice continued, calming to its usual formality and stiff elegance. "You are different from the rest. Your ability to survive is strong. Your affinity to slaying them is insurmountable. They are rage. Brutal. Without mercy. But even to them. You will be worse. The "Angel of Death". That is what they called you, isn't it?"

Instead of pride, Branson felt revulsion course through him.

With it, he found the motivation to draw _Bloodhound_ and point it off to his side. Its size and shape was comparable to a katana, with the only distinction being the dirk-like point. Along the back of the blade, a bolt and barrel shorter than the blade was attached.

The timing was coincidental; as he lowered the blade, four Beowolves had climbed each corner of the roof. They bore grins of razor-sharp teeth, claws curled and bared, and bodies ready to spring on their newfound prey. But neither their stances or growls reached Branson's constitution. He stood there with closed eyes and a hard frown, choosing to pay more attention to the spiritual than the physical.

"This is your fault." His voice was soft and cold. There was a twitch of his sword hand and, in response, the Alpha of the pack raised up.

"It is." The voice answered, unrepentant and anticipating.

Branson's mouth curled, exposing the teeth in a feral snarl. He swung around to meet a leaping Alpha, balling his free hand into a fist. His uppercut crashed into the underside of the demon's chin, barely keeping its open maw from closing around his flesh. Aura triggered the flechette launcher, spitting seven Dust dart-like projectiles into the throat. Force and momentum threw the Alpha into the air and, a second after, the flechettes detonated. The resulting explosion destroyed both the head and a large part of the torso. What was left of its body crashed down to the ground, completely disintegrating a second later.

The underlings responded without hesitation, rushing on all fours at their target. One of them let out a roar as it got close, jumping off the roof's surface and lunging.

Branson pulled his sword arm back and extended his free hand out to the lunging Beowulf. The two lead fingers on his free hand served as a brief iron sight, his other hand pulling the trigger. The shot's recoil made the sword swing back. But it was accurate, piercing the front of the monster's head and gruesomely blowing out the back. The swing, driven by recoil, vertically sliced through the head and body of the third wolf.

He did not strike down the survivor. Instead, he turned and ran off the roof. Rushing winds smacked him in the face, but he kept squinted eyes open as he descended to the ground. He heard the angry roar of the wolf, followed by its own leap off. But his gaze was focused on an Ursa Major, whose beady eyes had zeroed in on him.

As it raised its claw, he pointed his free fist and fired seven more flechettes into the bear's face. A few of them met its eyes. In its throes and roars of pain, it dropped its paw.

Branson twisted his body to land feet-first on the Ursa's head, then leaped off in a backflip. His boots and his jump height barely kept the following explosion from consuming his legs. It boosted him higher, allowing him to meet the falling wolf head-on. A backhand swing cut the demon in two, its remnants collapsing in sync with the bear's and Branson's form. Unlike them, he would land on his feet and straighten back up.

A series of growls and snarls caught his attention. He looked around, glaring at a scattered but large number of wolves and Creeps moving into surround him. They outnumbered him greatly, resembling a small army more than a simple pack. His anger pushed away his anxiety, and he gripped _Bloodhound_ in two hands. The blood and adrenaline coursing through his veins was at an all-time high, with every part of him demanding that he fight.

"But," He declared, brandishing his sword threateningly and glaring at the monsters. "You all are gonna be the ones who'll pay!"

What met him in response was a chorus of bellows and snarls before the sources charged at him. He sucked in breath and ran to meet them, his mouth blowing out a battle cry of his own. His form was leaned forward and low to the ground, straightening back up when he was met with the first Creeps.

An uppercut cleaved through a leaper. A redirecting twist tore through another. He raised his foot and stomped on yet another's head when it tried snapping at his legs. While it squirmed and writhed under him, he focused his attention on two more leapers. Two one-handed swings was all it took to render them into dust. Giving the Creep he pinned one last glare, he pointed _Bloodhound's_ tip and ran the creature's head through.

His head snapped up, his eyes locked on an Alpha who had just invaded his personal space. Reflexes guided _Bloodhound_ to timely block its swipe. He stepped back, giving the Alpha a small foothold. Twists and twirls of the arms and wrists allowed _Bloodhound_ to block its fast and ferocious slashes. He only allowed the exchange a small life-span; a particularly powerful swing was purposefully missed by the blade, only for the blade to slice off the forearm. He didn't give the thing a chance to scream, following up with a slash through its knees. He didn't give it a chance to fall, taking the beast's head with a slash through the neck.

Its underlings weren't too far behind. Their presence forced Branson to hold his position, their bodies rapidly circling him. The black mist they emitted created a faint mist that partially obscured their movements. He raised his blade, but the incoming paw was too fast. It swept past his defenses and palmed him in the chest, sending him flying to the readied claws of another wolf.

Putting his feet behind him, he skidded backwards between the wolf's legs. _Bloodhound_ was plunged through the beast's stomach before it could turn around. Quick pulls of the trigger drilled two shots through the nearest, tearing through the one that had landed the hit.

As both of them fell, Branson twisted around to meet a third. But this one was quick; it had gotten close enough to snap its jaws. He leaned back, barely missing the serrated maw by an inch. He leaped, his knee slamming into the underside of the wolf's chin. But although its head was knocked to the sky, its body was still able to clasp Branson's midsection and catch him before he could descend. After tilting its head back, it let out a point-blank roar before opening its mouth to close around Branson's face.

Fury pushed him. Thirst drove him. With contracted eyes and a feral sneer, he shoved the wolf's head back to the sky. _Bloodhound_ was jammed tip-first through the side of its head and out the other. What would've been another fierce roar was reduced to a gurgle, and it released its hold on Branson as it dissipated.

A sharp, searing pain ripped through Branson's back, courtesy of a sneaky wolf's claws. Injury was avoided thanks to the shielding of his Aura. But the force propelled him forward. He let out a sharp yell as he was thrown, tossing and tumbling across the ground. But he managed to recover, completing the skid on all fours. His head raised up at his assailant, his glare emphasized by a brief illumination of his brown eyes.

His sixth sense alerted him. Without thinking, he leaped back just in time to avoid a brick that crashed and shattered into the spot where he once was. Rising to his feet, he snapped his gaze up to see a few wolves perched on nearby rooftops. Material torn from the houses - primarily bricks and other things of a hard composition - were clutched in their claws. They growled and glared, raising their purchases in preparation for more throwing.

With a frustrated hiss through teeth, he turned and sprinted around a nearby house in an effort to get out of their range. In his run, he was met by several Creeps. But like the ones before them, they never stood a chance. Rapid and almost off-handed swings from _Bloodhound_ cut a swathe through several of them, leaving only a select few to chase after him. He paid them no mind, his attention focused on the house.

A single leap carried him off the ground and onto its roof. When his boots hit the surface, he crouched on one knee. His free hand grabbed his sword hand's wrist, and both arms were raised to chest-level. Both the edge of _Bloodhound_ and the elbow of his free arm were pointed at an enemy "sniper", with the dirk-like point being used as a makeshift iron sight. He saw the beast raise its bricks up in preparation to throw again.

A single shot through the head, and it was ensured that the beast would never throw anything again.

Another brick crashed against Branson's roof, close enough to startle him into a stand. But he kept his arms in their stance, swinging his body to face a second and third sniper. There was a split second taken to aim, pull the trigger, swing to the second target and repeat the process. Both of them were dropped before they could even begin their tosses, their items and bodies rolling off their perches to the ground below.

Without warning, he broke his stance and swung himself around to meet the wolf that struck him. He caught it mid-lunge, throwing his full weight into its chest and sending the two of them back off the roof. The beast screeched and squirmed, but was unable to keep Branson from grabbing its throat and placing the soles of his boots against its chest. As the wolf's back made contact, he was briefly surprised when he felt not the ground, but another wolf who was unfortunate enough to be under the falling couple. He gave a hard glare, a point of _Bloodhound's_ tip and two final shots to end both of them.

As the en bloc clip was ejected with a tell-tale ring and Branson jammed another in, he raised his head up at additional growls and snarls. What he saw was an additional reinforcement of Beowolves and Creeps. But accompanying them were a handful of Ursa Minors and a few Ursa Majors. While the latter type mostly approached on all fours like the lesser demons, a few - primarily the Ursa Majors - stood up on their hind legs and towered over the horde. He breathed heavily and sweat fell down his face in rivers, but his defiance held fast.

"Like moths to a dying flame." The voice taunted them, even though their ears could never hear it. "They can't help but be attracted to you. No matter how many die. They will keep coming. Rest assured. Their numbers are still vast. But they are also finite. Keep fighting. Keep killing. All will be silent soon enough."

Branson gripped _Bloodhound_ in both hands, settling into a traditional stance. His lips pulled back, his snarl full-force.

"Rip and tear." The voice punctuated its monologue with zealous eagerness. "Until it is done!"

Its words of violence caused him to scream before he threw himself at their numbers. They charged to meet him.

At first, the Ursas took the frontline. They swung at him, putting raw power and aggression into every strike. Many of their paws and limbs came down upon him, and he was forced to twist around and duck under every one. A quick and precise counter-attack was necessary; his blade was twisted and turned, slicing through the limbs and then heads and bodies of the bears. Although he slew with efficiency, he wasn't quick enough to eliminate all of them before the lesser ilk arrived.

It all started spiraling down into chaos. There were too many creatures of too many types attacking him for any sort of plan. The assault on him was too constant for him to gain a breather or keep the ability to think. All he could do was swing and slice, kick and slam, barrel and leap his way through the horde. Although every sense was on high alert and every motor in his body was active, he could feel himself begin to slow down. Muscle and bone ached, and his heart was threatening to break out of its ribcage. With each and every inch he held, he broke down more and more.

It all came to a head when a Creep headbutted his back. A startled grunt escaped him, but a sturdy foot placed in front of him kept him from stumbling too far.

His heart nearly stopped when an Ursa's claw slashed his chest. The force sent him flying backwards. His Aura's passive shield, marked by a brief light shimmering across the body, shattered like glass. His back slammed into the furry chest of an Ursa Minor, who immediately wrapped its arms around him in a literal bear hug. Its muscles contracted, crushing Branson's form. He shut his eyes tightly and screamed to the skies, his legs kicking at the air. One of them was met with the mouth of a Creep, who eagerly sank its teeth into his shin.

Under the threat of his bones being turned to powder, he had little time to act. He brought his head forward, then thrust it back against the Ursa's chin. The beast, stunned by the sudden blow, was made to release Branson and stumble back. He landed on his back, kicking away the latching Creep. The agony pulsing in his chest and back kept him from getting any further than on his knees and an arm. He shook violently, gasping for breath and trying to regain some sense of clarity.

His head raised unsteadily, his eyes focusing on a recovering Ursa's knees. The grip of _Bloodhound_ regained strength, encouraged by the enemy's presence. Despite every nerve within him screaming for him to stop, he shoved himself just enough to get close and slice through those knees. The roaring Ursa fell to the ground, silenced only by two shots from _Bloodhound_.

He staggered to his feet, his free hand clutching his chest. His breathing was ragged and irregular, tinted with wheezes and gasps. But after backhand swiping down a Creep that threw itself at him, he lurched forward to meet the enemy's numbers once more.

Pain dominated the nerves. Exhaustion dominated his motors. Breathing provided little relief, and he was constantly plagued with the threat of passing out. He could only see black and white blurs, his senses dulled by energy drain and injury. But he kept going, his heart refusing to allow him a moment of rest. He couldn't register his blade as it carved through hide after hide, reaping Grimm upon Grimm. He couldn't register the high-power shots that nearly tore _Bloodhound_ out of his grip. His body had gone on automatic, with the single thought process of the enemy's destruction running his mind.

It wasn't until an undisclosed block of time later that the voice returned to him. "That's enough, Branson!"

Branson scowled at the sudden interruption, his free hand returning to his chest. "What do you mean, that's enough?!" He demanded, his voice hoarse. "I haven't-"

"You have." The voice cut him off. "Stop and listen. What do you hear?"

Bemused, Branson relaxed his stance. His sword lowered to his side, his ears perking up. He stood there, quietly taking in the sounds of the environment. The snapping of flames were still prominent, although having died down in the time that passed. There were no more growls or roars of the demonic. There were no more paws shuffling through and pounding the dirt. There was only his harsh breathing and the voice itself.

"Nothing." He muttered, turning his eyes every which way. All he saw was the charred remains of houses, other buildings and people. There were no more telltale signs of black and white. "And I don't see anything, either. Does this mean…?" He trailed off, hesitant to speak the next words.

Fortunately, the voice was more than willing to confirm. One could see the smile, if it had a face. "They are gone. Just as I expected. You did it, boy. You survived another nightmare."

And just like that, a burden had been lifted off of Branson's shoulders. A wave of relief washed over him, mitigating the hit of the pain that did the same. He closed his eyes and smiled weakly, his hand letting _Bloodhound_ clatter to the ground. His body became limp, and he collapsed face-first against the earth. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. But the most he could manage was feeble chuckles, his shoulders faintly shaking with each one. With the burden of conflict gone, his body was finally allowed to rest.

As his eyes started to flutter, the voice spoke to him with an almost comforting tune. "Rest now. I will take care of the rest."

Readily, he obliged. The last thing he picked up before his senses shut down completely, however, was the sound of whirring blades and voices.

"Hey! We have a survivor! Hey, you! Can you hear me?"

"I think he's hurt. Quick, grab a stretcher and help me lift him!"

"3rd Carrier to Pilot! We have one injured and being prepared for extraction! I repeat…"

* * *

 **After toil, trial and error, I present to you the first official chapter! Thank you for waiting so patiently.**

 **If you paid the author's note at the bottom of the teaser any mind, then you'll know I have a few things to talk about concerning the story and its development. While I have a pretty good idea as to where this story's gonna go, there are things that I just have a harder time thinking about than others. That's where the readers (hopefully) come in.**

 **I haven't thought of a proper name for the "voice" yet. I've been scouring the net, trying to find the perfect name to call our protagonist's dear friend. In addition, I've been wrestling with the choice of whether or not to give it a name at all. Any ideas for that? Don't hesitate to send me a PM about it.**

 **And... well, actually. That's it concerning any concerns I have about story concept. So, yeah. Send a PM if you have an idea for the voice's name or anything else concerning the story. Leaving a review gives me insight on how I'm doing and what I should do in the event that I'm trekking into bad territory, so don't be shy! But don't be a butt about it, either.**

 **-Gwyn Walker (Chescoke483)**


	3. Chapter 1 - Chronic Fighting Syndrome

**A/N: Hello and welcome to the second- okay, actually this is the first chapter. I lied before. I didn't mean to, I swear!**

 **Before I begin, I'll explain just what exactly the character Branson is meant to deconstruct.** **There have been quite a few stories in which I've seen the generic "loner". He doesn't like talking to others, stays by himself and is often seen by other people as off-putting. However, in the times that I've seen, these characters come off as unnecessarily antagonistic and, to put it bluntly, complete d'bags. With Branson, I'm hoping to express a cause and effect for this brooding and damaged character type. Feel free to tell** **me how much I've succeeded in the review section.**

* * *

The conditioned chill of the hospital was nothing compared to the psychological cold of the interrogation room. As still as he sat, Branson couldn't help the goosebumps rising on his skin. He stared at the only door with contained trepidation, his fingers softly clawing at the wooden table he sat behind. Cuffed wrists trembled from time to time, earning a faint jingle from the chain link and keeping his wariness from being relieved. It was one of two factors keeping him on edge, the other being the gluttonous silence consuming the room. There wasn't even the ticking of a wall clock to keep him company.

It had only taken four days. After coming out of the hospital with a healed form, he was confronted and apprehended by police. They had been firm in their approach. But because he had just recovered his strength, they didn't subject him to any rough treatment – something reinforced by his compliance. He was confused – at least, initially. But he didn't resist, even when they had relieved him of his weapon. The one inside him urged and complained, but went no farther than that.

It hadn't given up on trying to sway Branson, however. "You know." It said off-handedly. "It would be easy for us to leave."

"I'm aware." Branson replied flatly, keeping his eyes on the door.

"Then why are we here?" The voice pressed, allowing a little irritation to seep through. "Why do you submit?"

Branson shut his eyes tightly, taking in a breath and trying to keep his voice neutral. "Because this is what I've been striving for from the beginning."

"To become the law's pet?" The voice demanded.

"To get away from the Grimm!" Branson's eyes snapped open, his voice raising upon speaking this sentence. The rise of anger was stopped only when he realized where he was, and he lowered his volume. The terse tone didn't fade, however. "Even if I succeeded, all I'd be doing is marking myself as a criminal. Even getting past that wouldn't do anything but put us back on the outside." He slowly closed his eyes again. "Where do you expect for me to go once we're back out there? What do you expect me to do? Continue fighting countless Grimm until I drop dead?"

The voice huffed. "You seem to perform excellently thus far."

"At what cost?" Branson shot back. "Every encounter up to this point was something I barely got out of with my life. There were more times luck got me out of problems than skill. What if that luck ends up running out? Sooner or later, I'd slip. One slip up would be everything needed to put the nail in my coffin." He shook his head firmly. "No, I'm not going back out there if I can help it."

There was a moment of silence. Branson could feel his resident's displeasure, but he held firm. His hands had clenched into fists, with his shaking lessening to a less-than-noticeable twitch. His eyelids raised to a half-opened position, his gaze drifting down to the table. He waited patiently, resisting the urge to tap his fingers against the wooden surface.

It seemed like an eternity before the voice spoke again, its bitterness clear. "Of course. How easily I forget. You humans, weak and wasteful, have your limits. Despite your successes. You are still nothing but an insect." It took minute amusement when Branson let out an annoyed growl. "I supposed the last extermination got my hopes up."

"Go to hell." Branson hissed, baring his teeth and narrowing his eyes.

"I don't have that luxury." The voice hissed back.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Branson's eyes snapped to the door entrance, fixing themselves of the new voice's source. What he saw was a woman with peach hair kept in a chic stacked bob and heterochromia-afflicted eyes – the left blue and the right green – that regarded him with bemusement. Her attire seemed simple, what with a peach sweater, dark blue cargo pants and brown moccasins. Imprinted on her left bicep were two crossed axes silhouetted by a laurel wreath, both of which were colored brown. In her hands was a Scroll, which she had apparently been reading until this point.

Branson's innards tightened. He found his voice, terse and clipped as he spoke back. "No. Nothing."

Another handful of silent seconds passed. With each one, Branson felt discomfort rise within him bit by bit. Upon registering his response, the woman had taken to peering at him in analysis. But he did his best not to let it show. The last thing he wanted an interrogator to see was weakness.

But thankfully, the seconds passed quicker than he anticipated; after giving a satisfied hum and a nod, she approached and slid into the seat opposite of his own. She set the Scroll down and folded her hands on the table, looking him in the eyes. "First of all," She began, a hint of warmth in an otherwise reserved tone. "The reason you're here has nothing to do with your actions outside of the kingdoms." Branson's eyes wavered in surprise. "We're all fully aware what it's like for people out there, the ones who don't have our protection. In addition, the majority of what happens in those lawless zones is outside of our jurisdiction."

"How did you-?" Branson began, but was cut off.

"Those scars say more about you than you think, apparently." The woman offered a teasing smile. It faded when she saw Branson's face retract into guarded neutrality. "You are here because your actions in getting here just so happen to be in the minority. We received reports from Mistral about a peculiar pattern of villages being destroyed – a pattern leading to and through Sanus. Some villages were even investigated. While the results were the same all around – ninety percent of buildings in complete ruin, bodies everywhere – most if not all casualties recorded were caused by the creatures of Grimm."

Branson's lips twitched. "And just what does that have to do with me?" He asked, covering anxiety with a dry and flat tone.

His eyes immediately snapped to one of her hands, which moved over to pick up the Scroll. After checking it herself and running a finger over it a few times, she turned it around so that he could see the screen. Image after image of burning villages and Grimm movement were displayed, with each image lasting long enough for Branson to get a good look. His guarded expression immediately gave way to horror, his mouth parting open in his shock.

"These are photos taken during rampages in progress." She explained, pausing to tilt the Scroll back for her own brief look. "I'm sure that some of them look familiar to you... some moreso than others."

Beyond the images of death and destruction was something that caused Branson's gaze to flicker. They were clear pictures of him in various states and positions. In one, he was actively fighting off a horde of Grimm. In another, he was leaving the village, bloodied and battered. In yet another, he was fleeing on horseback with Grimm chasing after him. At face value, he could simply be seen as a lucky lone survivor. But the hard look in the woman's eye made it clear she knew what really happened. His eyes drifted away from the Scroll and his head turned away from her.

"While I don't like taking interest in such an idea," She continued, turning the screen off and setting the Scroll down. "It's become a thing in the heads of witnesses that you are somehow leading the Grimm to these villages. They are wary that you are trying to use the Grimm to attack Vale. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But there have been more ridiculous things in this world that happen to be very true." She leaned forward, frowning and staring intensely at him. "What is said and done in this room will be what decides your fate. So I suggest that you come clean and explain yourself as best as you can."

Her words snapped Branson out of his shame. After briefly regarding her with surprise, he hardened his expression once more. "Come clean?" He asked, scoffing and shrugging. "In other words, tell you what you want to hear and the punishment'll be easier? What do you want me to say?" He gave a snide shrug. "I brought the Grimm there on purpose? I wanted to destroy those villages? Sorry, lady. But it's a policy for me not to speak anything outside of the truth."

"What?" The woman's glare immediately let up. She raised a hand up in placation, shaking her head slightly. "No, that'not what I-"

"Save it!" Branson snapped, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not gonna give you an excuse to throw me into jail, lady. All I want is a good shelter from out there. I'm not here to harm your precious kingdom or city. Just..." He paused, rescinding his harsh tone for a tired one. "Just let me go, give me back _Bloodhound_ and I'll be on my way."

There was a glimpse of frustration on the lady's face. She closed her eyes and sighed, hanging her head down in thought. After a few silent seconds, she nodded – presumably to herself – and raised her head back up to meet his gaze. Her lips parted, but it took another second for her to find her voice. "...I couldn't help but notice the way you dealt with your Grimm encounters."

Branson raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"I'm no master of knowledge when it comes to the psychology of people," The woman explained. "But the majority of other people put in your shoes at those points would've taken the time to escape. There were only rare exceptions for you to do the same. You preferred staying where you were and fighting until every last Grimm perished. You succeeded, but you always came out in critical condition." Her eyes expressed confusion and concern. "Why put yourself at such needless risk?"

"Needless?" Branson repeated the word as if she had just diagnosed him with a terrible disease. He glared at her, although it was more out of disbelief than anger. "The Grimm are nothing more than mindless monsters. They kill and destroy without reason or any regard for the lives they take. Not one of them would ever consider the thought of sparing me. Why should I have spared any of them?"

"A fair point." The woman hummed. "But with that being said, do you really believe you're making the right choice wanting to stay here?" She folded her hands together, taking in Branson's confusion with a grain of salt. "I understand why you came to the kingdoms for shelter against the Grimm. But you must understand that it's no permanent heaven. The Grimm are relentless, merciless, dominating and barely stoppable in their conquest over mankind. We've suffered many losses against them and, despite our advances, we will suffer many more over the course of time. What's to say this kingdom won't be one of them?"

Branson slowly exhaled through his teeth. "Are you saying I wasted my time coming here?"

"I'm saying that if peace is what you're really wanting," The woman corrected, unfolding her hands and placing her palms against the table. "You'll have to work for it. I happen to have something that just might suit your interest." She tilted her head to the side, smiling a little. "How would you feel at being a student at Beacon Academy?"

Branson's guarded look shattered under the immense shock that washed over him. The look he gave the woman was so priceless, it was difficult resisting laughter. "...what."

"A student, at Beacon Academy." She replied patiently. "Normally, you'd need to spend two years at a combat school to prepare for our entrance exam. But after evaluating the information collected about your activity up to this point, I can safely say that you've already earned your place."

"I-" Branson started, shifting uncomfortably and uncertainly. He raised his hands up in seeming placation. "Look, lady. That's a really nice offer and all, but I don't think I'm cut out to be-"

"Nonsense, child." The woman cut off, a mild look of reprimand in her eyes. She wagged a chiding finger at him. "You are more than cut out. You have exceptional expertise in the slaying of Grimm and the drive for doing so. It would be a shame to let all of that go to waste, especially when you might need such skills in the near or late future. Wouldn't it?"

Branson slowly shut his eyes, clenching his hands into fists. He squeezed and relaxed them, keeping himself in quiet thoughtfulness.

"No one will fault you if you refuse." The woman added, her voice growing soft. "But I believe that someone like you wouldn't want to sit by and wait until the monsters are outside your doorstep."

Branson kept quiet for a few more seconds before giving a harsh sigh. He opened his eyes up to give a look of resignation. "All right, fine. I'll accept. Now that you put it like that, it doesn't seem I have much choice, anyway." He reeled back slightly when he saw her face brighten up, losing most of the seriousness it held during the conversation. "What happens now?"

"Now?" The woman repeated, rising up out of her chair. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a silver key and holding it in preparation. "Now I'll undo those cuffs around your hands. Your sword is just outside. You'll grab it, I'll escort you out of the station and..." She paused, frowning. "Well, you don't have a home to go to, do you?"

The image of a raven flashed through Branson's vision.

He tensed and grimaced, his teeth clenching and his eyes shutting once again. He exhaled slowly, opening them back up to spot the woman's concerned face. He stood up, approaching her and holding his hands out. "No," He said, clipped and curt. "I don't."

The woman hummed thoughtfully, gently taking one of Branson's hands. She paused when she felt a light flinch from him, but continued when she saw he wasn't going to do anything else. She quickly unlocked the first cuff, then captured his other hand to undo the other. Once the cuffs were open, she slid them off his hands and put the key back into her pocket. "Well, you're free to come stay at my home if you wish." She said, giving him a warm and inviting smile. "I'd hate to leave you out in the cold after giving you so much hassle."

"I think she wants a piece of you, Branson." The voice piped in, its smugness causing Branson's eye to twitch. "And she does look like quite the specimen. Would you really let this go to pass?"

"Sure, no problem." Branson's eyes widened when he realized his tone sounded a little more annoyed than he intended. He extended his hand out, raising an eyebrow. "Thank you, miss...?"

"Alyssa Peach." The woman answered, clasping his hand and giving it a firm shake. "Professor Alyssa Peach. And your name?"

"Branson."

"Splendid! I look forward to your contributions to Beacon." With a nod, the proclaimed Peach turned herself to the exit and gestured for him to follow her. "This way, please!"

* * *

It was a few days later, when the airships came to pick up the hopefuls of Beacon.

Branson was staring down at the city of Vale in mild interest, his arms folded across his chest. Compared to what he had seen prior to this moment, it was a rather welcome sight. From where he stood, the city looked like a massive neighborhood more than a place of industry and business. Under a sky only partially obscured by the clouds, plenty of people were walking and driving down the streets. Clouds occasionally slid across his field of vision, temporarily obscuring the view.

The voice let out an annoyed groan. "Everything down there is so orderly." It grumbled, pulling Branson out of his trance. "So calm. So peaceful. If only I had my body. I could make it so much better." It huffed. "Unfortunate. But there's no sense complaining. At the very least. An opportunity is presented."

Branson raised an eyebrow, but remained silent – there were too many people around for him to speak openly.

"Beacon Academy is a place of knowledge, correct?" The voice asked rhetorically. "It may have crucial information. Information about our current," It paused, looking for the correct word to say. "Predicament. Information on how to adapt. Information on how to adjust. Who knows?" Its tone began to turn hopeful. "If we pursue it. Unexpected benefits might occur. Something good may come out of this yet."

"Yeah..." He muttered under his breath, his gaze drifting downward. "I can only hope-"

"Hey!"

The chirp of a female voice triggered instinct and reflex. The elbow nearest to the source was bent and thrust backwards, his body twisting with the movement. He connected with something, earning the startled yell of pain from the trigger. He spun around with a glare, his hands balled into fists and his body ready to defend against potential assault.

But his defenses were immediately lowered when reason kicked in. His eyes widened as they locked on the one he had knocked away – a ginger-haired girl. Faintly aware of the eyes that suddenly fell on him, he raised his hand to her and stepped cautiously towards her rising form. "H-hey, are you-?"

The girl groaned, rubbing the cheek that had been hit before dropping her arm. Turquoise eyes opened up to give him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. It wasn't a glare of anger, but anticipation. She grinned toothily, cracking the knuckles on each hand. "Oh," She drawled. "So you're looking for a fight, huh?"

"What?" Branson hissed, taking a few steps back with newfound wariness. Instincts commanded him to curl his fingers and tense his body. "I'm not-"

"In that case," The girl continued, working her neck from side to side. "Let's roll the tape back."

Without warning, she threw herself at him. Branson's eyes widened in alarm, and he threw his arms up as she threw a punch at his face. Her motion was emphasized with one word – a word that, unbeknownst to him, would stick by him for the rest of his time at Beacon.

" _Boop!_ "

* * *

 **Enter Nora Valkyrie, ladies and gentlemen! And it seems like a bad crossing of wires for both her and Branson. Whatever will happen next?**

 **Onto the details of this chapter. As you may or may not have noticed, Professor Peach has a face, a character and a more prominent role in this story than she did in canon. I'm only going off the idea that Peach is a "she" due to it being mentioned in RWBY Chibi. Haven't the slightest clue how much weight that holds in the actual storyline.**

 **I still haven't the slightest idea as to what to name Branson's "resident". Don't hesitate to shoot ideas about that in my direction. I promise I'm wearing a vest!**

 **Matter of fact, if you have potential ideas or ways that the story could be improved, shoot those at me, too! Don't be afraid to review, either; I'm a busy one, but I try and take the time to respond to each one... at least, if it's constructive and detailed enough. One-sentence reviews are something that I'm just... unable to work with.**

 **Thanks for reading, and I will see you in the next chapter!**


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